Of Trials and Timing
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Arthur always sort of assumed the whole "sword in the stone" thing was a one time deal, or at the very least a formality. Posted on livejournal foreeeever ago.


"Christ, Arthur, I know no one's been training you to swing a sword since birth, but can you not even lift the bloody thing?" Merlin said, sounding far too amused for Arthur's liking.

"Silence, peon," he said gruffly, not even stopping to wonder where such a strange turn of phrase came from. After the initial shock of his brain being drowned in a lifetime of memories that _were not his own_, Arthur decided it best to just ignore the odd anachronism.

"Oh ho," Merlin said with mock intimidation. "Who's made you king then?" He looked pointedly at the sword where it sat at a jaunty angle in a large, grey stone.

Arthur balked. "All right, listen you twat, I was king once, wasn't I? I don't have to _prove_ anything. Least of all to you or some bloody rock."

Merlin smirked, eyes twinkling annoyingly. "Whatever you say, _sire_," he said with faux-solemnity.

Arthur let out an irritated huff and returned his attention to what was quickly becoming an unnerving complication. The entire ride out into the countryside Arthur hadn't even _considered _the possibility that he might no longer make a worthy leader. He just figured the damn thing had imprinted on him or something, like a baby animal. Only, now the still-shining blade was stuck fast, no matter how enthusiastically Arthur pulled. And Merlin, the little shit, was giving him this _look_ of the long-suffering.

Arthur wrapped both hands around the hilt and braced one foot against the stone, praying that when – if – it came loose he wouldn't be launched backwards by the recoil. Because really, falling on one's arse didn't scream Once and Future anything. After another minute or so of straining effort, Arthur let go once more to massage the raw spots that had developed on his palms in the past ten minutes.

"Look, maybe this was a bad idea," Merlin said, staring out at the setting sun with one hand shielding his eyes.

Arthur let out an incredulous noise. "What are you talking about? I'm Arthur Pendragon, this is what I _do_. If this weren't destiny, how would Morgana-"

"Morgan," Merlin corrected automatically.

"Whatever – how would she have known how to find this place?"

Morgana (because that was her bloody name, damn it) had been dreaming of this field for years, long before Arthur even had his memories back. She drew a map on a napkin right there in the pub the first time the three of them were in the same room in more than a millennium. Arthur had been carrying it in his wallet for a week, waiting for Merlin to get a day off at the hospital that corresponded with a gap in Arthur's class schedule.

Merlin squinted, either at the sun or at Arthur, it was impossible to tell. "I just wonder if maybe it's not time yet," he said cryptically.

"What the hell does that mean?" Arthur shot back, hoping he'd imagined the not-quite-definite note of avoidance in Merlin's tone.

To Arthur's confusion, Merlin sighed, rolled his eyes dramatically, and smiled at him, all teeth and the dimple just below his mouth showing, the one that Arthur dreamed about kissing, a lifetime ago (yet, he still remembers).

"It just means that maybe – maybe Morgana-"

"Mor_gan_," Arthur corrected, a little harshly.

"Maybe," Merlin continued, unparsed, "she got a bit ahead of herself and gave us this-" he gestured to the sword, "before we were ready."

Arthur frowned. It was so frustrating, being reawakened with all that wisdom, but no closer to figuring out _why_. Why now? Why this life, these circumstances?

"It feels," Arthur said quietly, unable to stop his lips from moving, "like I've been waiting for this for a thousand years."

Merlin took a step closer, hand falling fleetingly against the sword's hilt before dangling at his side. "When you _are_ ready, I will help you rule the world, if you like."

Arthur blinked, torn between laughter and deep, terrified awe, because this was Merlin; he just might mean it. Then, perhaps due in part to the bewildered expression on Arthur's face, Merlin laughed nervously, brushing a hand through his tangled hair.

"So what do we do until then?" Arthur asked.

Merlin glanced up at the sky, eyes following a hawk as it wove across the fields. "I don't know. I suppose until then we're just. Us," Merlin explained.

Arthur stepped forward, unthinking, realising a second too late that this probably wasn't a good plan _at all_ but still somehow pretty sure he could get away with it, if only this once.

"Merlin," he said quietly. Merlin gave him a forlorn little smile, but didn't back away.

"Yes, sire?" he said, without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

Arthur swallowed thickly, wondering just what in the hell he was doing, and whether it was even what he wanted, much less what Merlin wanted. "You'll – you'll stay, right? Until then. I mean, if there even is a 'then.' Just, I don't know if it's destiny or—"

"Oh, shut up," Merlin muttered, and Arthur did. "You think you've been waiting a thousand years for a sword? Try waiting seven years for a fucking teenager to remember he's the bloody king of England and, oh, right, the love of your goddamn life. Lives. _All of them_," Merlin said, twisting one hand into his hair and pulling at it the way he always did when he was on the verge of physically assaulting his sovereign.

Arthur blinked at him once, twice, and then grabbed the back of Merlin's head with both hands and kissed him, hard. He felt Merlin surge into him, magic and body heat and bony fingers on Arthur's shoulders. And it felt _right_, more right than the hilt of a sword in his hand or anything else in this particular life so far. Soon they were sprawled on the soft, warm grass, trousers pushed down but not removed because they couldn't manage to stop kissing long enough to care. Arthur traced Merlin's cheekbones with his thumbs, left bite marks on the pale skin of Merlin's neck, and kept marveling at how completely _not strange_ it felt to be rubbing off against a man he met ten days ago and has known for a millennium.

When it was over, Arthur's hands wouldn't quit shaking, and he kept catching Merlin smiling at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Stop that. It makes you look slow," Arthur said without much ire, too strung out on sex and skin to work up a respectable amount of condescension.

"I'm not the one with cum in his hair," Merlin said, hopping up with surprising coordination for someone who just spent ten minutes speaking exclusively in profanity and Latin.

"And whose fault is that?" Arthur asked, following suit with slightly less agility. Someone had obviously stolen his knees, and when he stepped on the leg of his trousers he almost fell flat on his face. Fortunately, he managed to steady himself with one hand on the hilt of the sword, only then he fell anyway, and something hit him in the back of the head.

"Huh," he heard Merlin say.

Arthur sat up and looked around. Excalibur lay glinting with late afternoon sunlight, bright against the green grass.

"Well. Apparently, making a thousand-year-old man come proves I'm fit to lead a nation. Eh, wot wot?"

Merlin gave him a cheeky grin and, also, a blowjob on the long, quiet train ride home.


End file.
